In small doses, then, anger can be a good thing in sports. I learned that for some athletes, anger gives them hyper-focus, and they’re able to channel their physical responses into a heightened ability to play.
The issue is that there’s a threshold at which too much anger becomes a liability. Pushing your heart rate, blood pressure, or breathing too high can lead to shakiness or dizziness. If that happens, fine motor control and mental focus break down, and athletic performance can suffer.
When guys chirp at me, that’s what happens. Apparently my shame-induced anger sends my body straight past the stage of useful anger and right into the ‘Jesus Christ, does he even know how to play hockey?’ stage.
Interestingly, the anger I’ve been storing up for my old team and for Gray’s stalker seems to be just the right amount to keep my adrenaline levels at ‘can of whoop-ass’ stage.
My first goal in our game against the Lightning in the second period is a thing of beauty. Cote, Bouchard, and I pass the puck between us like there’s no one else on the ice. The Lightning’s goalie, a new guy, shifts back and forth as we pass it between us, and I send the puck to Cote, intending for him to take the shot. One of the defensemen reads the pass and moves to intercept, though. The only thing Cote can do is send it back to me at the last minute. I’m almost past the goal, but I take the shot without thinking.
The angle is nearly impossible. I have maybe three inches to play with between the post and the goalie’s shoulder, and there are two other players between us. The puck flips in the air, and I see it, almost in slow motion, turning so its short side faces me. It slips between the post and the goalie like a coin feeding into a slot. How it made it past the elbow of the Lightning’s defenseman and over Samsonov’s knee, I’ll never know.
I pump my fist in the air as my team swamps me against the boards in congratulations, and now my anger-fueled adrenaline is bolstered by elation. The period ends a few minutes later, but I’m still riding high.
As expected, my former teammates have tried chirping at me, but they’re the least of my worries right now. I barely hear them as I play.
When the third period starts, I’m out on the ice for less than twenty seconds into my shift before I steal the puck away from one of my old friends on the Lightning and streak down toward the other end on a breakaway. There’s no one near me, and I fake a shot right before flicking the puck left. The goalie falls for the fake, and I have the whole left side of the net to put my shot in for my second goal of the night.
I’m firing on all cylinders right now, and my old teammates have gonestrangely quiet. I haven’t been buzzing like this in a long time, and it feels incredible. Almost as good as sex with Gray.
With three minutes left in the last period, Kingston has been perfect, and we’re riding a 2-0 lead as Tampa Bay pulls their goalie.
My anger still simmers below the surface, but it’s not the anger of shame, not the anger that says my ideal image has been challenged. It’s the anger that my old team didn’t value me enough to try to save me. My contract was up, and rather than help me fix my issue, as Kaladin is doing, they let me go.
It didn’t hit me until I was back here on the ice, in this stadium I know so well, just how much their vote of ‘no confidence’ hurt. That anger is what drives me now, and it’s squarely in the ‘useful as fuck’ category.
My last goal of the night is at once the most and the least exciting. I feel the desperation of the Lightning players as they try to get the puck close to Kingston, who looks like nothing short of a giant boulder in the middle of the net. He’s big, and he’s faster than any guy that size has a right to be. There’s very little daylight for the Tampa Bay forwards to find.
One of the Lightning wings, another old friend, takes a wild shot at the goal, but Kingston gets his glove up just in time to deflect the puck into the air. It pops up back toward center ice…Right to me. I snatch it out of the air, drop it in front of me, and head toward the open goal before half the other players have realized what’s happening.
My shot is dead center, and the few Hydra fans in the audience erupt in cheers. Only a few hats land on the ice as the Lightning fans head for the doors, and the stadium’s staff quickly scoop them up before we play out the last two minutes of the game.
We win 3-0, all thanks to me, and I’m on cloud nine. Old friends on the Lightning come over to congratulate me on my hat trick, and my old coach claps me on the back to say, “Revenge is sweet, hey, Gun.”
My skates barely touch the floor as I head back into the locker room with what I’m sure is a ridiculous smile on my face. I’m undressing when I notice everything has gone quiet.
I turn to find Kingston looming over me, his extra three inches feeling like extra feet right now as he stares me down. I straighten as much as I can and stand my ground. He can’t really want to start something right after I scored a hat trick and he played a shut-out game, can he?
We glare at each other for what seems like forever before he finally says, “Good game, asshole.”
My brows shoot up, and it’s several seconds before a smile creeps onto my face. “Yeah, you too, dickhead.”
The corners of his mouth twitch before he turns away, but he stops and turns back to me.
“You’re wrong, though,” he says.
I frown. “About what?”
“About your doc’s little friend,” he says. “You should have seen the way she was eye-fucking me across the table that whole poker game. She wants me alright.”
My mouth falls open a little before I angle my head to concede the point. “I’ll take your word for it,” I say.
He grunts and tromps back to his locker as I sit on the bench to take off my skates.
“Word of advice, Gunny,” Kelsier says softly as he leans in. “Buy a fucking Megamillions ticket before this streak of luck runs out.”
Chapter 38
Ash
